


Working at the Horse Wash Blues

by berelinde



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drug Addiction, F/M, Lyrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berelinde/pseuds/berelinde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen takes on odd jobs to feed his addiction. Some are odder than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working at the Horse Wash Blues

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is posted as a response to a suggestion in the BioWare Social Network "Cullen" thread that he should be a shirtless horse washer who is afraid of horses. It got a lot darker than I intended when I started to explore the reasons for him doing something he might otherwise avoid.

**** The beast's nostrils flared at Cullen's approach. Enormous, iron-shod hooves stomped on the ground. He approached warily, his bucket raised like a shield... as if a shield could possibly be of use in protecting him against a ton of maddened horse flesh. He could see the hate smouldering in its slotted amber eyes. He tried to hide it, but the horse smelled his fear. He wished that he had something more lethal for his sword-arm than another bucket.  
  
"Steady... steady..." he muttered, willing his body to obey his orders to the horse.  
  
He wondered how it had come to this. He hated animals. Soft, fluffy, cute ones were all right, but the behemoth in front of him was out for his blood, he was sure of it. If there had been any other way to earn the coin, he would have taken it, but fifty silver was too large a sum to pass up just because he had been trampled as a child, even if he did still bear the scars to prove it. He needed the coin too badly. He could feel his grasp of reality slipping. He was sliding inexorably into the Fade. Only a sip of blue liquid could save him now.  
  
The sting of a horsefly bite on his bare back reminded him that he had been still too long. He did not approve of the requirement that he be half-naked to complete this task. He understood the reason for it. He was not a complete innocent... all evidence to the contrary. He might not understand how a woman could find sexual gratification in watching the former Knight-Captain run a wet rag over a dusty horse, but if she was prepared to pay him, he could live with a little humiliation.  
  
The horse whinnied. He almost dropped the bucket and fled, but he collected his remaining wits and crossed the last few steps between him and his nemesis. Sweat flowed freely from every pore.  
  
"Easy, Nelly," he said, his voice wavering in near-panic, "we're all friends here, right?"  
  
Nelly did not answer.  
  
He checked the knot to be sure she was secured to the hitching post. He wished there was some way to tie off her back legs as well, but that would almost certainly enrage her. It was probably best not to risk it. Besides, she had probably been washed hundreds of times before. She was toying with him.  
  
He set the buckets down and picked up the rag.  
  
"Let's get you all shiny and clean, shall we?" he said in what he hoped was a friendly voice.  
  
The first few passes were easy. Nelly stood docilely munching hay while he worked up a lather on her flanks. She was not bad, as horses went. Her coat was a rich chestnut brown, and sleek muscles moved beneath it as she shifted her weight. He just had to watch where she was putting her feet. Things did not become tricky until he reached the back half. He did not like being close to legs that could launch him from the paddock if she took it into her thick, horsey skull to evict him.  
  
"Now, wash off the lather before you do the other side!" his patroness called from across the fence.  
  
Obediently, he sluiced away the suds with water from the other bucket, drenching himself in the process. His thin linen pants clung to him, making him wish once again that he had been allowed to wear something more substantial than the gauze she called trousers. Never in his life had he felt so naked. In public, anyway. He  _had_ felt more exposed when the Warden came upon him after he was imprisoned by abominations, but no one had seen him but the Warden... and a Senior Enchanter of the Circle, a future Seeker of the Chantry, and the future king of Ferelden. If he was destined to make a fool of himself, at least he had a suitable audience. This time, the only onlooker was a ridiculously wealthy noblewoman old enough to be his aunt... if he had an aunt. She was older than him, anyway, and from the looks she was giving him, far more experienced. He bent to retrieve the empty water bucket and dreaded the necessity of going to refill it. He did not know which he disliked more, exposing the tissue-draped structures of his anatomy to his employer's scrutiny or turning his back on her horse. He clutched the bucket in front of him by its base, positioning it like a giant wooden codpiece. Fifty silver only went so far.  
  
He approached the horse a second time with even more trepidation than he had the first. He now had to wash the other side, which meant placing his body between the animal and the fence. Even if she was not the murderous beast of nightmares, she was still a horse. They liked to rub themselves against trees, fence posts, and other vertical objects. He tried not to look like a tree, and the horse washing resumed. Nelly whuffled.  
  
"Laugh if you must," Cullen retorted, "but I'm warning you. One foot... er, hoof... out of line, and it's the glue-maker's for you."  
  
Her ear twitched in dismissal.  
  
He took his time with the second side. Nelly's immense body sheltered him from his employer's gaze, and there was a wholesome satisfaction in working up a sweat outside in the clean air on a mild August day. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed such innocent pleasures - decades, in fact - and he could almost forget that he was a futureless addict selling his soul for the tincture that would stave off insanity for another week.  
  
All things must end, and his ordeal was no different. At last, the horse was washed, and his promised payment was nigh.  
  
"Undo the tether," his patroness ordered.  
  
"You can't be serious!" Cullen protested. "She'll charge!"  
  
"She won't even know you untied her."  
  
"I don't believe you. Sure, she looks bored now, but as soon as I touch the rope, it's 'MWAHAHAH! Revenge is mine!'"  
  
The noblewoman laughed and untied the rope herself. Nelly ignored her.  
  
"About my payment..." Cullen began.  
  
"I haven't forgotten," she said. "Come inside and we'll talk about it."  
  
"I thought we agreed!"  
  
"We agreed on the grooming fee," she said, thankfully ignoring the fact that the animal was currently rolling in the mud, "but your performance has suggested other opportunities. You were once a templar, were you not?"  
  
"I was once the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall," he replied, his heart sinking. He thought her offer too good to be true. Who pays a stranger half a sovereign to groom a horse? Someone who likes gloating, apparently. Not all of the denizens of the Free Marches were sorry to see him go.  
  
"Then you will be most interested in hearing my offer," she said with a sly smile. "This way, Knight-Captain. I daresay you will find the accommodations acceptable."  
  
Since payment was not immediately forthcoming, he had no choice but to follow her. She led him to a stout door which she unlocked with a key from her purse. The portal opened on a steep, dark stairway that spiraled up the sides of a narrow tower. Near the top, the walls of the stairwell were pierced with windows too narrow to be anything more than arrow-slits, but they let in enough daylight to prevent Cullen from stumbling. His employer opened another door, but no light shone through the threshold. He remained on the stairs while she lit candles within.  
  
"Do not be afraid," she said, beckoning him inside. "There are no dragons in here."  
  
He edged into the room, apprehensive. It was not a large room, but it would not be, situated at the top of a tower and surrounded by a great spiral stair. It was windowless, of course, but candles blazed from every surface, warming the room to an almost intolerable degree.  
  
"You will want to change out of your wet things," she said, gesturing toward a screen. He complied reluctantly; her tone brooked no refusal.  
  
He stripped off his boots and wet pants and looked around for a change of clothing. A length of silk hung from the corner of the screen, but there was no other garment that he could see. He held it up and groaned at the brevity of it. It was too narrow to wear as a mantle, and too short to reach around his waist a second time. He tied it like a sarong with one knot over his hip, but the gossamer fabric broke every rule of decency. She wanted a show for her silver, it seemed. He complied reluctantly. He would have stripped naked and danced the remigold if it brought him relief.  
  
His eyes had adjusted to the dim light of the inner room, but it still took him time to spot his patroness amid the cushions of her couch. She had shed the riding leathers she had worn in the paddock and was clad in a loose samite robe that clung to her curves, but it was the vial she held that drew his attention. Pale, opalescent blue liquid gleamed within.  
  
"Come here, templar," she commanded.  
  
"Are you going to pay me or not?" he demanded, eyeing the vial. He did not have to taste it to know that it was lyrium. He could feel it in every deprived fiber of his body. "I don't have the coin to pay for that."  
  
"Each of us has something the other wants," she said. "I'm sure we can work out some kind of a trade."  
  
She upended the vial, unstoppered it, and dabbed the top against her throat as if it were perfume. Without thinking, he dove onto the couch and licked it off her neck before her skin could absorb it.  
  
"There," she purred, "I told you we could work out some kind of arrangement."  
  
She eased open the front of her robe, remoistened the stopper, and stroked it down her decolletage. To his horror, he found himself lapping it up, sucking fervently to claim every last droplet. Tendrils of clarity snaked through his mind, tightening his anchor to the present even as they expanded his consciousness of the Beyond. After nearly a week of deprivation, the tingling sensory awareness was almost more than he could bear. It was like the taste of air to a drowning man.  
  
She exposed her breast and caressed it with the stopper. His eyes widened as he realized the full implications of her actions, but he was powerless to stop himself. His body would have what it needed, even if it meant laying aside a lifetime of chastity to obtain it. He drank down her offering and offered no protest as she eased the scarf from around his waist.  
  
For hours, she led him on, or so it seemed. She coaxed and soothed, tantalized and restrained, urging him to greater and greater efforts for a taste of her elixir. For his part, he allowed himself to be led. The slight lessening of his immediate need left him susceptible to her carnal allures. He had never touched a woman as he was touching her, but his body knew what to do. Physically and emotionally, he was poised on the edge of ecstasy.  
  
On some level, he knew that his life was about to change forever. His caresses pleased her, but she wanted deeper fulfilment, and he knew it. She lay him on his back, straddled his hips, and took him.  
  
His wordless exclamation at her conquest hovered between a moan and a scream. He felt violated, but he wanted it. He was in the grip of another kind of need.  
  
For long moments, she rode him, grinding against him and seeking release again and again while holding him on the brink. He gripped her hips, pulling her down hard and trying to force her to rock to his rhythm, but she was cannier than he. She nurtured his desire, making him her slave until her appetites were slaked. Finally, as the flutters of her last climax receded, she unstoppered the vial once more and poured the rest of its contents between his lips.  
  
Mind and body united in an explosion more intense than any he had known, Kirkwall included. Deprived momentarily of speech, he lay gasping, closing his eyes against the swirl of reality and its opposite that threatened what was left of his sanity. At last, his pulse slowed and a preternatural lassitude stilled his limbs.  
  
"My, that was fun, wasn't it?" she said as she climbed off of him. "You're going to have to leave now, however. I'm expecting my husband at any moment."  
  
"Your husband?" Cullen stammered.  
  
"You didn't think you were courting me, I hope!" she laughed. "Though I wish my husband had half your endowments."  
  
"No," he said, rolling out of bed and attempting to cover himself, "but we have committed a grievous sin in the eyes of the Maker!"  
  
"You can take it up with the Maker later," she said. "In the meantime, I suggest you leave. There's fifty silver in the purse on the table."  
  
"My clothes?"  
  
"Talk to the stable boy. Really, now, you must go, though you may visit again, I suppose. I won't have lyrium again for a fortnight, but I can still satisfy your other needs."  
  
"I will not be visiting again," he said firmly, pulling on his wet pants and stuffing his feet into soggy boots.  
  
"Such a pity!" she pouted.  
  
"I will pray for your soul," he said earnestly.  
  
With that, he left. Where the Knight-Captain went, tales do not say, but rumors speak of a handsome, blond-haired stranger who was often seen at the shrines on the road to Orlais. He went on foot, it is said, and was most devout, eschewing the gaze of any woman, maid or crone. Of his history or his deeds, naught is certain, but the words "Maker forgive me" were often on his lips.


End file.
